da kraziest sekuritie kamz

I come home from Woyzeck and get all fucking grumpy. Why is this? To be honest and presumptive at the same time I have no idea other than to think back to the comfort of falling asleep next to a warm body. Isn’t that nice? A heartbeat in your bed is just about the coziest thing I can think of. Finding someone you can be comfortable enough to snore in front of is a truly beautiful occurrence. My sexual heat has evolved into a sappy longing. I fucking disgust myself.

this is a good article.

the electric organ makes better music than just about any instrument I know. especially when it has a drum machine. movie soundtrack music. I can’t really stay and talk right now

Oh man I’m going a bit CARAZY.
I need the sex.
I’m getting all moody and I think I know why.
I haven’t had any in so long. Too long.
It’s too bad that I have no favorable prospects at the moment.
Maybe I should just straight up ask a willing candidate?
Hmmmmmmm.
I’m not so good at that.
I like avoiding confrontation in that sense.
At this point it is past tiring to hear people tell me to become independent and let things happen organically.
Sometimes your body just wants to fuck.
And that’s a legitimate need.

I feel like far too many people read this blog. After reviewing some earlier posts I am fairly positive that it is impossible to decipher my humor electronically… I really hope that I haven’t fucked up by writing honestly and am now considering the consequences of writing much of anything here at all. Is this how Caribou Barbie felt when her GMail got hacked?

Jeff and I in New Zealand? If this sounds like some wacky kind of sitcom to you then you would be dead wrong. It’s a jaunt across the world to soar to new heights. southern hemisphere anyone? it’s the place where summer is six months later.

well I had something else but I forgot it. let me rummage…woyzeck? pretty much covered in that there’s nothing else to say other than “come to it.” Sarah Palin? covered…New Zealand? well aside from the fact that Jeff and I are headed to her capital Wellington to take in theater from a Kiwi perspective, here are a few other useful facts.

The prime minister:

Her name is Helen Clark!

guess what: she's had some work done on those chompers

this video (especially the beginning) left me pretty flabbergasted but here it is, imagine george bush (or stephen harper or nicolas sarkozy or angela merkel or gordon brown or really any leader from a developed country, let alone those from the third world) in a situation like this. what a cupcake!

the capital: wellington

the people: New Zealanders, aka Kiwis

50s prosperity brought by: wool boom

the national rugby team does a zany dance before each game: yes

James and I have a pact to act on important issues at hand and he’s already way ahead of me in that regard. Damn it… well it was going to have to happen sooner or later but now i am just forced to do something about it before next Friday.

also, Maggies laptop died. We lost all of our songs and have to start all over!
fuuuuucccckkkkkkkkkkkk k kk k

Welp there she goes. There it goes now that I have time to acknowledge it. I don’t have time to absorb this, kim. I have 22 credits. I have four scenes. I’m directing a play. I’m writing a play. I’m in a play. I have at least two more on the way. I’m in Italian 1004 and don’t understand a fucking thing. I have a new creature who needs me to take care of it. I have to spend the weekend with my parents. I have to pretend to love them. I have to pretend that my mom isn’t one step away from an institution. I’ll probably have to pretend that I’m straight again for my parents’ comfort. I have to pretend that I have slept or eaten or fucked adequately in months. I have to pretend that I’m not getting more and more paranoid everyday. I have to pretend that the repercussions of last semester aren’t haunting me everyday. I’m bad at pretending, folks. I’m good at acting because it is temporary. I turn my mind off and become a character and often don’t remember what happened when I am through with a scene. I can’t turn my mind off all day. That would be called sophomore year of high school when I walked around telling the world to fuck off and that I didn’t give a shit what people thought about me or how I felt about myself. Of course I care. I want to be happy, healthy, and stress free. I want to be able to have normal relationships. I want to be confident with my friendships and not have to tip toe through interactions. I feel like the world is a Woyzeck fun house and everything has been slanted a bit off. Sure, college kids are stressed and stretched to their limits- but this is more than that. This is Lori not even existing anymore and still having to prounce around making a temporary shanty within a cubicle. This is sleeping for an hour a day and falling asleep in the manner of a narcoleptic. This is being given a 9 by 22 rectangle and being told to salute the sun. Look, I love this whole intense training thing but I’m just never going to figure out what a shoulders length apart is. I don’t want to tell you in 10 different ways the 3 things you have taught me about the Italian revolution. Everyone walks around me seemingly enjoying themselves. Is everyone as dramatic as I am? Are these feelings even justified? I haven’t even been here a month and I really need a mental health day, though I keep being told that I’m not allowed such a thing. My perfect day would probably involve just fucking and eating and getting really wasted minus the headache and sore balls. This is why people take minimum credits, kids. This is why people just communicate when they want eachother. This is why people masturbate and drink themselves to death. This is why people commit suicide. I’m just glad that I don’t have any money in the stock markets.

Resisting Myself, Resisting Death, Using Life
Nicholas Marcouiller
My friend is dying. Rather, the mother of my friend is dying. The
creator of the beautiful piece of art that is one of my best friends is
dying. I mean to say dying in the sense that I don’t expect her to occupy
a body by the end of the week. I suppose we are all dying and all that
hoopla, but placing the distinction of the process onto a person’s life
is something to be noted. This woman, this creature is resisting death in a
more visible way than I am currently resisting the urge to sleep. Both are
valid urges. Both are quite immediate, and both have quite an apparent
solution. Both propel a human forward through uncontrollable time. Of
course I feel a bit guilty comparing my situation to hers. My resistance
propels me from a desk to a bed. Hers from a bed she never chose, to an
urn. This woman is literally withering away with every character I type.
She lost her breasts years ago. She lost her hair this summer. She may
already have lost her life, actually. I suppose I wouldn’t be told until
morning. In this context, the idea of art as a tool of resistance itself is
especially beautiful to me. In fact, after being asked by just about every
teacher to define these abstract concepts I consider wholly indefinable
(art, life, death), Anne Bogart provides me with quite a lovely quip. Art
(and therefore life) is man’s best attempt to float himself in the presence
of Death’s undeniable gravitational pull.
I decided a while ago to keep my acknowledgement of death behind a
veil at all times in order to distance myself from that menacing pull.
Without this sort of unconscious resistance, I would be literally
emotionally paralyzed by the thought of my eventual fate. I know this
because I have been there before. Instead, I decided to be proactive. I
“put my foot on the pedal” so to say. I transformed depression into
creativity. The unfortunate consequence of this lifestyle is the occasional
emotional volcano. I have bypassed the lava without fully letting it
settle, and of course nature would prefer to revert back into its natural
order. Eruptions are most likely to occur when I am forced to face morbid
reality. Now, for example. When my grandma died, for example. When my OTHER
grandma died, for example. The process of love is bound to end in a
climactic splurge of emotion. A kitchen floor cry.
I feel the pull of death and I push with life. I feel the pull of
obscurity and I push with confidence. I feel the pull of failure and I
resist. “Don’t want to cast me? You’ll see me again.”. Humans fear
things they do not know. The result of that simple concept always seems to
manifest itself in some sort of anger or shock when the unexpected rears
its lovely head. This interaction is something that Anne Bogart and I
absolutely adore. I love not having a fucking clue what to do, but allowing
my body&mind to figure it out in the moment. That’s fresh. That’s hot.
The key seems to be adopting a method into one’s soul in such a fashion
that it is bound to the creative process completely. Am I a proponent of
this hybrid interaction between artists and structure? The jury is still
out, folks! But I am warming up to the idea. Resistance, Pushing and
Pulling are all clearly visible. I do not doubt the existence of energy
flowing around me, around the girl here with the ponytail or that man with
the eyebrow. Energy is the inexplicable moldable readable tool of intimacy.
Hopefully Kari and Kim have a few secrets to clue me into tapping this very
real magic.
In conclusion there is no conclusion. I did not write this
response as a scaffold dependant package but rather a free flowing river of
thought. Death and Beauty and Exhaust are my influences and Anne Bogart is
my impetus. I want to read her book. Michael Sommers keeps talking about
the violence of choice and I keep listening. Perhaps this is a good time in
my life to make a violent choice – a choice to take these magma emotions
of mine and absorb them without letting them consume me. A choice to use
them in order to create beautiful art…

by Maggie Danger

I will just start by saying that cake isn’t far and away my favourite dessert. It had to fight for that title. There are so many other good ones out there, like pie, the good old fashioned American delight. Cherry pie rocks, as does apple-licious. And ice cream, that one will never get old. Chru dat. Fudge is something I really love but don’t want all the time, nevertheless it’s up there on the survey says board.
Donuts! the morning dessert. Makes you feel like a complete person.

but it’s CAKE that really takes the cake!